He huffs a quiet laugh. “She’d say she keeps me fed so I don’t waste away. I think she’s afraid I’ll starve or turn feral.”
“I can’t picture you feral,” I tease. “You’re too…controlled.”
“Controlled.” He rolls the word around like he’s testing the feel of it. “That’s fair.”
I run my gaze over him. Even under his loose T-shirt, the hard planes of his chest are easy to make out. Yes, Declan’s perfectly in control, which is annoying since he makes me feel so out of control when I’m around him.
I drop my gaze to my plate and poke my fork into another ravioli, dragging it through the cream sauce before popping it in my mouth. I chew each bite slowly and by the time I’m finally finished, Harper reappears with our entrées.
She sets my pork chops in front of me—maple-glazed, crowned with caramelized apples and sprigs of rosemary—and slides a bubbling dish of shepherd’s pie toward Declan. “Be careful, it’s hot,” she warns, smiling at him.
“Thanks, Harper,” he says, keeping his eyes on me.
My cheeks flush from his constant attention.
“This portion is huge.” I prod one pork chop with my fork. “Do you want to try it?”
“Sure. But we can always box it up and take it home with—” He glances down at his plate. “Take it back to the inn with you.”
Ouch, is that a subtle way to let me know I won’t be going home with him again tonight?
I refuse to ask. Instead, I take a bite of pork. The sweet glaze melts into smoke, salt, and the tang of apples on my tongue.
“Oh my God,” I mumble around the mouthful. “It’s so good.”
Declan nods, pleased with himself. “Told you. Gloria’s a magician.”
“She is,” I agree and quickly cut another piece of pork.
We eat in companionable quiet for a few minutes, the clink of silverware and low hum of conversation wrapping around us. Eventually, curiosity pushes me to ask, “What about your parents? You said Gloria worked for them. What did they do?”
He sets his fork down, his thumb brushing along the edge of his napkin. “My dad was a craftsman. Metalwork mostly—iron gates, ornate signs, some tools. Things that last centuries when they’re built with care and attention to detail.”
“That’s…fitting.” I stop stuffing my face and tug at the iron key around my neck. “So, you learned to make jewelry from your dad?”
“I learned to make all sorts of things from him. My grandfather was the jeweler, though.” His gaze shifts to the side. “I’d like to get back to making finer pieces, eventually.”
“Talented family,” I murmur, a sudden wash of embarrassment sliding over me. I shouldn’t have shared so many details about my mother or my impoverished childhood.
An awkward silence stretches between us.
He studies me for a long moment before speaking. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed,” he says quietly. “You survived what you had to. That’s something to be proud of.”
I trace the edge of my plate with my fork. “Maybe. But sometimes I hate the way it still defines me.”
“No, it doesn’t.” His lips twist in frustration. “I never would’ve guessed any of that if you hadn’t told me.”
Now I really wish I’d kept my mouth shut.
“I know you don’t think I could possibly understand.” He sweeps one hand in the air toward the door. “I grew up around here and people know me.” His voice drops a notch. “They’repolite now, but for years, a lot of people in this town treated my family like we’d escaped from an asylum.”
He frowns and casts a sideways glance around the small room as if the town’s ghosts might overhear our conversation. “When my sister disappeared, people finally understood the curse was real. My mom spent the rest of her life trying to break it.”
“Did she get close?”
He exhales through his nose. “No. It can’t be broken.”
I tilt my head, studying him. “If someone placed it, someone can break it. Curses are just cause and effect, right?”
